"Meaning came out of living. Meaning could come only from his choices and actions. Meaning was made, not discovered. […] What he did and thought in the present would give him the answer, so he would not look for answers in the past or future. Painful events would always be painful. The dead are dead, forever."
— Karl Marlantes, Matterhorn

there it is. there it fucking is.

"There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star."
— T.S. Eliot, ‘The Hollow Men’

how do you how do you how do you how.

"What stories can do, I guess, is make things present.
I can look at things I never looked at. I can attach faces to grief and love and pity and God. I can be brave. I can make myself feel again."
— Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

the world has been a week without.

i don’t know what words i can have claim to.

but things, most things, continue. as is their wont, as is their way.

i can’t not think or be aware of it of absence. and that, for now, i think is for the best.

i’ll probably begin with this, with posting again in the near future. because as say, it goes. not swa heo na wære, but with awareness held within, un-lost. a process of building. a process of collecting.


Leonard Cohen (6)

"ring the bells that still can ring 
forget your perfect offering 
there is a crack in everything 
that’s how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen, ‘Anthem’

for a little bee of angst and perfectionism.

she spoke of history as a way of sharing stories and allowing those who have been to live on. extending the impress and impact of lives that have gone before.

what words can do is preserve. carry forward. what words can do is inspire.

she hoped to impassion others to take up this flare of storytelling. in her was the vibrancy, the insight to achieve such excitation.

to have known her is to have felt its pull. to have known her is to have been staggered. so she has touched us.

and so words must, i think, be given onward.

what she asked was that others would give voice to, record to her living. that her time would pass not without knowing.

i don’t know the last time i cried. yesterday i wept.

now everything feels unstable, tilted just enough to set the world askew so that i know the potential for falling. i don’t know how to look at people.

  can i tell you

i do, i will mourn (process maybe never ends, maybe never cease to regret because never cease to remember and to wonder, what if, what might have been)

   but more than regret, what i give myself to is holding, is closeness, is recollection.

she had an ear and a heart for sensing what is deepest in people. for language, for poetry. for feeling where and how words tendril into living. she said poems, phrases from others can tell what we lack words for. said the truth is somewhere in this twining.

      she startled me with observations.

   few people do.

i don’t know what to think about the fact that there will be no more of these revelations that there will be no more of this sharing. already i miss her insights as i miss her jesting her gestures her ardor. and yes, i think how there might have been more. that there would have been so much for her to share with the world.

   we are poorer for her absence, though brighter for her having been.

there are spaces now that cannot be filled. presences sealed shut. there are words, songs, characters and tales that hold her.

i am cold, i suppose. i have always been. she reminded me that i am also human (truth to our ad men), and i cannot think on her without feeling also that warmth she drew. what i have learned is that connection in this world is possible, even if it passes. that connection remains even after passing.

this afternoon, i climbed a tree and sat speaking poetry. it helped.

   the silence is harder.

i don’t worry about losing hold of memory of her because the words the knowings the chest-pulls of elation of dolor of wistfulness now run within my veins. the time the words with her have become components of my DNA, and if she is no longer there for seeking, still she remains within what i know and in all that i see. when i speak, it is partly her memory that sounds. when i speak, i am guided by senses shaped through what she showed.

what i have, what i am has been changed. what she gave was transformation.

i think, i say that memory is what we have to hold.

and words remain to offer.

"If I can believe in air, I can believe
in the angels of air.

Angels, come breathe with me.

Angel of abortion, angel of alchemy,
angels of barrenness and bliss,
exhale closer. Let me feel
your breath on my teeth—

I call to you, angels of embryos,
earthquakes, you of forgetfulness—

Angels of infection, cover my mouth
and nose with your mouth.

Failed inventions, tilt my head back.

Angels of prostitution and rain,
you of sheerness and sorrow,
you who take nothing,
breathe into me.

You who have cleansed your lips
with fire, I do not need to know
your faces, I do not need you
to have faces.

Angels of water insects, let me sleep
to the sound of your breathing.

You without lungs, make my chest rise—

Without you my air tastes
like nothing. For you
I hold my breath."
— Mary Szybist, ‘Invitation

there are no words.

"A voice lives in me that is not mine. It calls
and the ground changes at its beckoning,

the road lengthens, the stone in my hand
becomes a skull I lower into a well and drink."
— Traci Brimhall, ‘The Needful Animal’

Come to that, I will be AGGRESSIVELY OUT OF TENSE. As if I were about to could have caring. As if time will slipped in accordance with your liking having been done. Don’t time me. Don’t time.

and in my mind remains no room for what I am; all is full in ruins, ruins, ruins.

i sometimes think my skin dissolves.